


Alone Time

by anneapocalypse



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:37:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash walks in on his partner enjoying some alone time. Post-Epsilon, vaguely AU, in which Wash and North are living together. </p><p>Inspired by <a href="http://nonowest.tumblr.com/post/38470056169">this lovely (nsfw) art</a> by the lovely Mimi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone Time

Wash blinks a few times. The room’s dim. Gotta be late. Six, at least. Usually he wakes up sooner. No nightmares today, though. Must be a good day.

They still haven’t gotten their sleep schedules synced since they moved in. Not sure they ever will. Wash’s sleep’s so erratic. He has to take it when he can get it, in fits and starts. Afternoons, usually. He wakes up when North gets home from work, which lets them have a few hours together for dinner and then curling up on the couch. They watch TV, sometimes movies. Sometimes talk. Sometimes just sit. When North has to hit the sack, Wash crawls in with him for a while, until he falls asleep, and then slips out of bed once his breathing’s quiet and even. Night’s when Wash does most of the housework these days. Trying to sleep at night tends to go badly, so instead he tidies up the living room, gathers up the laundry, does the dishes. Dishwasher doesn’t bother North. He sleeps like the dead.

Wash rolls himself upright, stretching, and reaches for his jeans where he tossed them on the floor before he crashed. He’s been trying to get better about getting dressed lately. Spent so many weeks slouching around the place in boxers or sweats, feeling like he barely had the energy to keep his head together, never mind pull on a clean pair of pants. These days, he finds it helps. His head might still be a scrambled mess sometimes, sleeping even worse, but at least he can climb into some clothes when he gets up and feel a little more human. He’s in one of North’s tees, a little big on him but worn to a perfect, comfortable softness and faintly infused with his scent.

North should be home from work by now.

Wash pads barefoot toward the living room and stills in the doorway.

North’s home. Jacket where he hangs it by the door. Shoes below. Same as every day. North’s always been pretty neat to begin with, Wash too—just comes from military life, keeping your things in order, but it seems like North’s extra careful about not throwing his stuff around, knowing it’s Wash doing most of the housework. It’s not something they talk about, but Wash notices it, how he doesn’t drop his pants on the floor when he comes home, how he doesn’t shove his socks under the couch—and he appreciates it.

It’s not the _first_ thing he notices, but it registers all the same, the way North’s clothes are piled next to him on the couch, jeans and polo and socks and boxers—green plaid, the ones Wash likes best on him. Or off him. Not folded, North isn’t that fastidious, but dropped in a relatively neat stack, his belt coiled on top.

His eyes don’t linger on that, though, but on the captivating expanse of North’s pale skin, the way he’s reclined on the couch with one hand behind his head, eyes closed, lips parted in concentration, and the other hand moving on his cock.

Wash’s hands stop short of buttoning his pants.

His eyes don’t even know whether to land. Never do. God, but his partner is a beautiful man. Broad and powerful, long stretches of muscle with a nice little bit of padding over it all. A little more since they settled down—they both still hit the gym pretty regularly, it’s habit and a good strenuous workout helps clear Wash’s head sometimes, but nothing like how hard they trained in Freelancer.

His eyes travel down, and there Wash’s gaze does linger a bit, because fuck if he ever gets tired of admiring North’s cock. From their very first tentative time fooling around back on the _Mother_ —wow, that sounds awful doesn’t it, the ship’s abbreviation was unfortunate sometimes—but right from his first encounter with North's dick he’s been kind of enamored of it. He admits he’s got a thing about size, although he hates the term “size queen,” used to be all glares when York would throw it at him teasingly, and that was about the AIs, York didn’t even know about—well. Point is, North hits all his buttons, in both proportion and skill.

North’s big all over, not like Wash is a small guy but North’s towering and broad and thick even next to him. Wash used to fantasize about finding somebody with the size and strength to pick him up and fuck him against a wall. North’s done it. More than once.

Wash leans silently against the doorframe, a smile ghosting over his face. God, there’s something about watching North. Watching in general—something he didn’t even realize he was into until this year. In the months following Epsilon things haven’t been the easiest, to say the least, and that’s been everything, sex included. Even once he got to the point where he could _mostly_ sort out his own thoughts from the remnants of Epsilon, there’s a lot of days he’s exhausted just from holding that line. Worse days, he just can’t handle being touched.

North’s never pushed a damn thing, but some days they’ll just flop out on their bed and jerk off side by side and Wash’s found that watching North touch himself just _does_ something for him that he never expected.  

Not entirely sure why, but it might have something to do with the fact that North’s always taking care of somebody else. Always been like that, as long as Wash has known him and as far as he can tell, his whole life. Always looking out for his sister, for one thing. Since she got her own place South’s been a lot more scarce, and Wash can tell North misses her, but he’s trying to let her be. Let her live her own life. It’s what she wants. Even if she does get herself into trouble, it’s _her_ trouble.

If it’s not her, then, it’s his friends he’s looking after. And these days it’s mostly Wash, if he’s being honest.

So there’s something about watching him just take care of himself.

The room’s still enough he can hear the little catch of breath as North’s chest rises and falls, his head tipping back a little further as he draws his hand slowly up over the head of his cock. Wash feels his own breath catch a little. He knows well enough what those hands can do, for all the times he’s been sweat-drenched and breathless and held tight against North with one big hand spread across his chest, the other wrapped around his cock and the throaty murmur in his ear, _Come for me_ , and between those hands and that voice his body always gives in, it’s like a goddamn switch.

North left hand rubs the back of his neck and then slides down his chest, thumb brushing over his nipple before dropping further. Wash stares, mesmerized at the way his fingers curl under his balls, the way he rolls them against his palm. There’s such an obvious difference between somebody just taking care of business and somebody taking their time and North’s just taking his sweet time, taking every ounce of pleasure he can. His grip around his cock is loose, Wash can tell by the space between his fingers, he’s just kind of teasingly stroking himself. His thumb curls over the tip, rubbing circles. Wash feels himself stiffening in his still-unbuttoned pants. It’s been a day or two since _he’s_ taken care of himself, and it’s easy to just stare and let arousal prickle under his skin and heat rush between his thighs. God, North’s long thighs look so good in the light, one leg drawn up and crooked at the knee. Can’t see it well from this angle but North has a faint sprinkling of freckles over his legs and his chest and his upper arms that Wash loves to brush his lips over when they’re wrapped up in each other and taking their time.

He’s gorgeous just spread out like this. Easy and comfortable in his skin that way. It’s something Wash’s noticed before, how easily North moves and just how comfortable he is in his body. It's one of the things that drew him to North, long before he could ever put a name to it, long before those late-night talks just the two of them on the _Mother_ , long before he knew the feeling of being wrapped up in those long, strong arms and covered with unhurried kisses everywhere his lips could reach.

There’s a certain grace to the way his hand moves over his cock: smooth steady pulls, a long stroke up, kind of rolls his palm around his head, and back down. Wash can make out the slide of his foreskin just above his hand as he draws upward, how it retracts on the downstroke. Hears the wet drag of skin as North tightens his grip. Feels his own pants tightening at the sound. North groans quietly, low in his chest, and Wash presses a hand against the front of his pants, just enough relief to keep himself in check, and keep watching.

North's getting close. Easy to tell from the way his thighs tense up, the way he arches a little more into his own touch, the way his breathing quickens—he can tell that even even from across the room. Even before he starts pumping faster. Wash is almost breathless watching. _Come on, North. Come for me._

With a louder groan North comes over his stomach, hips arching up into his hand as he works himself through it with quicker, harder strokes. Wash stares entranced at the twitch in his abdomen as his body goes slack, the way his chest heaves as he catches his breath. Thinks of kissing the soft skin of his belly, like he has plenty of times before, of dragging his lips through his come and cleaning him up with his tongue.

He lets out a sigh, a soft one but North’s head turns, his ice blue eyes open to meet Wash’s eyes, and in the look that passes between them Wash knows there’s no way North didn’t hear him get up, of course he knew he was here all along. North’s gaze flicks down to the obvious bulge in his unbuttoned pants, and back up. His lips curve up into a smile, and he murmurs, his voice full of warmth that tugs at him somewhere deep, “C’mere.”


End file.
